


Torschlusspanik

by wubzee



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: God Complex, Multi, Near Death Experiences, References to Frankenstein, Sorcerers, the musings of an old man, the scientist not the monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wubzee/pseuds/wubzee
Summary: 'Closing-gate panic': the fear which creeps in with age that time is slipping away, taking any significant opportunities with it. It's also the sense of urgency to achieve or do something before it's too late.
Relationships: Main Character & Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Kudos: 18





	Torschlusspanik

“How old are you really?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t know. A part of him wishes he’d kept track but it’s a hassle when all your time and energy is spent on far greater things.

If he were to think back on it, his age would probably be defined by the people he’d met and grown to love along the way. His friends and acquaintances and the ones who had been very dear to him.

He can see them all in his mind. Their faces and voices blending into one as he recalls stories and conversations and wonderful ideas they’d exchanged. Time hadn’t been kind to them. Not as kind as it should have been at least. They’d been ravaged. He’d seen them fade, trapped in their own minds, seen them driven to extinction by the search for power.

Yes, it was a funny thing – power. Those blessed with it tend to be quite satisfied with their lives, finding meaning in even the littlest things. Those who wish to obtain it are instead turned to madness, whether along the journey or at the end, when they realize that satisfaction is but a nonsensical concept invented for the weak.

Solomon isn’t sure where he fits in. He’d been blessed with a natural talent, gifts of magical aptitude that could leave many speechless. He’d also obtained his current abilities through years of searching and wondering and _finding_. New lands, new discoveries, new predicaments. They had been so fascinating, so enveloping at first. He could be seen positively enraptured in the world and all that it had to offer him. So many things it had to offer.

His appetite never wavered. With each dawn, another quest, another trip into the unknown. With each twilight, another question, another problem to be solved.

Luckily, he wasn’t always alone. One particular name stands out. Frankenstein. A handsome and invigorating man with an attitude that did little to soothe him.

Frankenstein had dazzled him with his wit and courage and…lack for better word, insanity. As brilliant as he was, the man had had several screws loose. That didn’t make him any less charming or passionate. In fact, some say it may have helped.

Buried in books and beakers, he never sat still. At some point, they’d convinced themselves that they held the universe in their hands. Just them two. _Gods_ , he’d said.

Why then did he disappear?

He wasn’t dead, no. He wasn’t the type to do something like that. In his heart, Solomon knows that he’s still out there, eyes glinting in the moonlight. He knows that Frankenstein is fighting a battle with himself. Disregarding the other soul residing in him, he knows that there is doubt in that very human body of his. Impulsivity can only do so much in the face of doubt and hesitation.

How old would _he_ be now?

Would they recognize each other? Or would they be strangers once more? Deformed and beaten by the growing passage of time? He thinks that would be more likely. The soul isn’t immune. Although the vessel may appear pristine and well-kept, the soul, however fractured it may be, will show bits and pieces of itself within the mirage.

There is no hiding those marks. Which is why he prefers to have his vessel reflect them. To a more conservative degree, definitely, yet to a degree all the same. The scars and patterns on his skin are littered with meaning. Self-inflicted pain describing moments in his life that he cannot forget. Mistakes and triumphs. Ecstasy and over-indulgence. Sorrow and regret. Trials and tribulations aplenty.

A few close calls. Brushes with death that in hindsight seem impossible. How had he survived them? He may forget…

Except when the night is blanketed in silence, or when the tide creeps in away from the morning sun, he is reminded of the terror. Flashes of light, effervescent, and a scream. Perhaps his own. The brain, as he so often finds, cannot be fooled. Deep within the entanglement of your subconscious and conscious, there is no trickery. No illusions to hide behind or whimsical acts of surrealism. Humanity is flawless in that regard.

He wishes to outrun it. To outsmart is so entirely that he doesn’t have to look back.

_Gods_ , he’d said. Had it been a promise? A desire? A selfishness? Deep in his heart he wishes it were true. To be untouchable. Revered across realms and entrusted with the loyalty of many. Individually, they are insignificant. Together, they are a force to be reckoned with. A god needs followers. Worshippers are a bonus, an add-on. Followers – they are the wind, carrying his word, lifting him to newer heights, going to inconceivable lengths to _believe_.

What is a king to a god?

What is a god to a non-believer?

When he’d abandoned the idea of heaven and challenged the fallen in hell, he’d clung to a hope that it would be all for whatever followed greatness. For whatever came above it. Beyond it.

However, with each pact grew his greed. And his boredom. That hunger of his was insatiable. Knowledge seemed trivial, a thing of the past. Something he coveted but something he no longer went out of his way to obtain. Circle by circle, he descended evermore into the darkness.

You were just another human. He watched as people threw themselves at you. He watched as you harnessed your gift. He watched as your expression grew warm.

He began to see, to feel again. The beauty of emotion came flooding his senses, dulling the ache, pushing away the emptiness. His heart beats ever steady in his chest, only, it beats for you.

The rhythm in his veins sings to the tune of your likeness and he feels…love. An all-encompassing concoction of dignity. He forgets about the monsters and the skeletons in his closet. He’s too focused, too engaged in the way you speak and the way you hold your breath. In the way your brows furrow, your lips purse, how they send sparks through him. He begins to learn. He begins to remember.

And then…comes the fear.

The fear of death and the fear of being forgotten.

If there is no one left to whisper his name, it will be as if he never walked the Earth in the first place. What is a legend but a fable on the lips of believers? What is a myth but a story written in the tongue of dreamers?

A rotting corpse, a dying shell. Slotted in alongside others like him who had failed to achieve the very same goal that mocks him. Ever further he goes, ever stronger it laughs.

And so, you, like so many before you, are there to tell him it’s okay. That you will remember him. And that, in itself, is enough.

He will continue to ponder, eventually taking your word for it. He will thank you as he holds your hand in his, smiling in that way that has even the stars smitten.

**Author's Note:**

> there seems to be a pattern developing


End file.
